Stakeout in the Snow
by ellameno
Summary: It's Christmas vacation and, after stakeout in the snow, Ingrid makes Fillmore watch A Christmas Story for the first time, and Fillmore gives Ingrid what she really wants for Christmas. Oneshot. Rated T for suggestive themes.


**I'M BACK, BITCHES! **

**I've been hard at work trying to make sure I have some fresh, fluffy, holiday goodness for you guys. The constant snowfall here the last couple days really helped keep the productivity going, I tell you what, haha. I hope you like it! **

**xXxXx**

Stakeout in the Snow

Ingrid was freezing.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and huffed, glaring at the cloud her breath made but kept her head on a swivel. She couldn't help feeling crabby. She should be home criticizing Ariella's cookie decorating or curled up on the couch with hot chocolate and a book, not staking out the agricultural club's tree farm. She cursed whoever had the bright idea to cut down and steal Christmas trees, and then cursed whoever volunteered her and her partner for stakeout duty. During Christmas vacation. While it was snowing.

She huffed once more. Despite the camouflaged hideout to protect them from detection and the harsh Minnesota winter weather, and Fillmore lying on his stomach directly next to her – they'd slowly gravitated closer to each other for warmth, much to her delight – the chill had seeped into her bones, and their thermos of hot coffee had long been empty. She was growing restless and the freezing ache in her toes was doing nothing to ease her growing irritation.

"Careful, Ing," Fillmore warned beside her, not looking up from his night vision scope. "You keep huffin' like that, you might as well be sending smoke signals to our perp." Even though he couldn't see it, he grinned knowing he'd earned one of Ingrid's infamous glares.

"What a shame that would be," she retorted, her eyes boring sharp holes in the side of his head. "We'd spook him into his senses, he'd turn himself in, and then we'd get to go home where we wouldn't be freezing to death. Sounds like a win to me."

He chuckled. "I told you to dress warm."

"I've got three layers on, Fillmore, and that's not including the blanket. Any more and we'd have a Randy Parker situation on our hands."

"He an old perp?" Ingrid looked at him incredulously but didn't respond which caused Fillmore to put the scope down and look at her.

"He's the little brother from _The Christmas Story_," she explained, but Fillmore shrugged and shook his head. She sighed and pulled her hands out from underneath her and waved them stiffly in the air. "'I can't move my arms!'" she quoted quietly, hoping to jog his memory.

Fillmore grinned at her. "I've never seen that movie, but that was real cute."

They stared at each other for a moment, he in amusement and she in disbelief. She snatched the scope from his hands and brought it up to her eye. "Uncultured swine," she muttered, to which he laughed.

"I might be uncultured, but at least I'm hot."

True, she thought, but scoffed and said, "Hot-headed, maybe."

"That too," he agreed with a wink and moved to crawl out of their nest. "I gotta take a leak."

"In this weather?" she asked, even though she was slightly jealous. Guys had it easy. "You're brave."

"Uncultured, hot, _and_ brave? I sound like a damn catch." Ingrid rolled her eyes but didn't hold back a smirk. Again, true. "Don't blow home on me, mama," he said and tapped the roof of the tent, which flapped in the cold winter breeze.

"Don't tempt me," she replied, her eyes not leaving the scope as he slinked out of the hideout and creeped out of sight.

Ingrid sighed. He really was a catch. Of course, she'd fall for him. It had been barely two months since she started coming to terms with her feelings towards her best friend, and while she was finally becoming used to acting normal around him again, she still found them bothersome. Being Christmastime, it was freezing outside, and being stuck next to him with all the romantic, cozy Christmas themes swirling in the air made their current situation all the more alluring.

She adjusted the scope as she scanned the farm below, wondering if maybe she needed to adjust her scope in her personal life as well as she tried not to think about that night all those weeks ago when they shared her bed. She craved that warmth right then. No matter how she analyzed and justified her feelings – all the long hours, the alone time, the fact she hardly ever talks to other guys who aren't in the force that aren't perps, etc. – she couldn't alleviate them whenever he winked at her or hovered a guiding hand at her back. She came to the realization that she'd have to accept them instead of fighting them and, hopefully, they'll lessen slowly over time, just as they had grown.

Being in this hideout in the middle of the night, however, was making that insanely difficult.

Fillmore stealthily crawled back into their tent with a grunt and sigh. "Any movement?" he asked as he plopped down next to her. She shook her head, and Fillmore swore under his breath. "Why couldn't the police handle this, again?"

Ingrid sighed. "Apparently, Appleton owes the club president's father a favor. Dad didn't want the police involved yet since he suspects it's a troubled student who 'just needs someone to bestow on him some Christmas spirit'," she explained tiredly. Fillmore looked over at her with a raised eyebrow. She handed him the scope again and rubbed her tired eyes with her gloved fingers. "If you ask me, I think it's a load of—"

"I think we got movement."

"Finally," Ingrid muttered, kicked her blanket off, and got up into a crouching position, ready for action despite her creaking muscles. Fillmore did the same, not taking his eye off the farm.

"One guy coming in from the south entrance," Fillmore elaborated, and Ingrid rubbed her hands together in anticipation before turning on her earwig. "It looks like he's headed toward the scotch pines, and that's definitely a hand saw."

"Are you getting pictures?" she asked and Fillmore, with a grin a mile wide, wiggled the scope in the air.

"Got plenty," he said, tossing the scope in the bag next to him and adjusting his earpiece, "now let's go get him so we can get the hell outta here."

Zipping up their white parkas and pulling up their face masks, they crawled out of their hiding spot and split up. Ingrid's excited heart raced as she trod carefully down the snowbank; all that stood between her and a hot shower was a perp in a blizzard. She rolled her eyes. Piece of cake.

Snowflakes flurried around her, providing perfect cover as she neared the north entrance of the tree farm where she would wait for her partner to lead their perp during their inevitable chase through the snow. She was vaguely aware that said perp was carrying a weapon but as long as they had the element of surprise (which the heavy snowfall should ensure), they shouldn't need to worry. It would be two against one, anyhow.

"_You in position, Ingrid?_" Fillmore whispered in her ear just as she approached the tall, gated fence.

"Ready when you are," she muttered as she craned her neck to size up the fence in front of her as Fillmore told their culprit to drop the saw. She tuned out his spiel, which she'd heard countless times before – witty pun first, some variation of "it's over", then him grumbling about how they always run – and she jumped up to scale the gate.

"_Damn, this guy's fast,_" Fillmore panted, and Ingrid rolled her eyes.

"This is where Tehama would say, 'language'," she grunted as she hoisted herself up to the top rung of the gate, perched and ready to jump down whenever they appeared. The bitter wind whipped past her, sending flurries ahead of her and threatening to push her over, but she braced herself with a steadying exhale. It's almost over, Third. She tried to curl her still-numbed toes and she adjusted her grip on the rails, her eyes scanning the edge of the trees.

Sometimes, this life felt surreal. Any normal teenagers on Christmas vacation would be home by the fire with their families and mugs of eggnog or hot chocolate, not building stakeout huts and apprehending a tree-cutting thief. However, she and her partner were no normal teenagers. They were exceptionally-seasoned detectives, trained to notice what most passed by without a second glance and to catch budding crooks red-handed before they wreaked havoc. She often worried about the day they'd bite off more than they can chew… The day when the dangerous criminals of the real world would upend their headquarters and test the very skills they worked every day to perfect.

"_Comin' atcha,_" Fillmore told her a split second before Ingrid spotted their guy bursting through the treeline and heading straight for her. She smirked. All danger aside, this was the fun part.

She kicked off the top rung and dropped to the ground, still-soft snow billowing around her as she rose to her feet just in time to see the "oh shit" look across his face. He skidded to a stop mere feet from her. "Going somewhere?" she asked as he looked around for another way out.

"Nowhere to go, man!" Fillmore shouted not far behind him. The perp spun around, looking back and forth between the partners before he swore and lifted his hands, dropping the saw into the snow. "Smart kid," Fillmore huffed. He trudged over to him and pulled out zip cuffs.

"You belts got nothing better to do during Christmas?" the boy barked as Fillmore pulled his wrists down behind his back. Ingrid approached and picked up the hand saw.

"We could ask you the same thing—" she yanked the mask off the boy's head with her free hand and recognized him instantly "—Tim Haldreth, is it?"

The boy glared at her with indignant dark eyes as Fillmore leaned into his ear. "She's got photographic memory, so that's a rhetorical question."

"Whatever, man," Haldreth spat as Ingrid pulled out the key to the gate. "What're you gonna do anyway? Take me home and tell on me? Fun fact, assholes: I wouldn't sneak out and jack Christmas trees if I had parents that gave a shit." Ingrid rolled her eyes and pushed the gate open for them.

"Nah, we got someone waiting up to talk to you, man," Fillmore explained as they walked through the gate. "_He's_ gonna take you home and tell on you." Ingrid smirked underneath her mask and pulled the gate shut and locked it. "You good to get our stuff?" Fillmore asked her and held out his hand.

"Yeah, you take care of him," she responded with a shiver and dropped the keys in his awaiting hand. "Tell Mr. Cheney merry Christmas for me." Haldreth groaned at the owner's name and Fillmore ushered him in the direction of his awaiting truck. With a sigh, Ingrid looked up the hill she just descended and started back up, using the handsaw as a makeshift cane.

That was, thankfully, easier than she'd hoped. Adrenaline subsiding, and previous harrowing thoughts of her future aside, she tucked the handsaw underneath her arm and pulled out her phone to call her sister, who agreed to pick her up. She pulled the earwig from her ear, slipped it into her pocket, and dialed Ariella's number. Ingrid was elated that she was finally home for the season. Thanksgiving might have only been a month ago, but it felt like years since she'd been home.

The line clicked. "_You catch him?_" Ariella asked, and Ingrid heard the rustle of blankets.

"Finally," Ingrid replied.

"_Good! I was starting to get worried he wasn't gonna show._"

"Tell me about it. Six hours of waiting in the snow are six hours too long."

"_Even though it was six hours alone with Fillmore…?_"

Ingrid heard the wink in Ariella's tone and rolled her eyes. "Especially alone with Fillmore," she said, doing her best to sound annoyed at the mere mention of him. She wouldn't dare give Ariella the satisfaction of admitting she was right. She had been pushing the idea of her with Fillmore ever since Thanksgiving when she made the unfortunate observation that Ingrid's demeanor around him had changed. Apparently, Ingrid smiled more, and that piece of information was enough for her sister to take and run with. Her sister always knew her better than she cared to admit. Ingrid pulled the phone back from her ear and caught a glimpse of the time. "Speaking of hours, it's almost midnight. How are you still awake?"

"_I'm a freshman in college, sis. Pulling all-nighters is in the job description._"

"Touché," Ingrid chuckled as she neared the top of the hill. "Well, I'm gathering all our stuff now. Meet me in the parking lot?"

"_I'll be there soon!_"

Ingrid hung up and stood in front of their hideout, a makeshift tent made up of two long white tarps, PVC pipes, some studs, and some two-sided blankets. She stared a moment too long at said blankets which triggered, once again, the memory of that fated Halloween when she woke up nestled into Fillmore's side and she sighed as an ache for that warmth flooded through her again.

Damn, she thought as she set to work tearing down the tarps, I can't wait to get home.

xXxXx

An hour later, Ingrid turned off the shower and pulled the curtain back, sending steam billowing through the bathroom. She was instantly met with a cold chill and she snatched her towel from the rung to wrap around herself. While she was thankful she finally regained feeling in her toes, it seemed that even the longest, hottest shower of her life couldn't ward off the chill in her bones; the kind of chill she felt in Fillmore's absence. She walked over to the bathroom mirror and swiped at her foggy reflection, shaking her head at herself.

"You're pathetic, Third," she muttered into the mirror, quietly blaming all the Hallmark movies Ariella was making her watch for her poetic, sappy longing. She wiped the lingering smears of eyeliner from underneath her eyes before removing her towel to begin drying off.

Her heart fluttered in her chest as she thought of him. She hated it because she thought about him often. Most of the time, if she were being honest with herself, so the anxious fluttering was essentially constant. Thanks to her sister's Hallmark addiction, she found herself unwillingly fantasizing about some miraculous Christmas romance between them which made it even worse. As she pulled on her favorite sweatshirt, she cursed at herself for subjecting him to such schoolgirl-esque daydreams. It's not like he would ever know, but it still felt wrong.

Of course, it wasn't as bad as thinking of him while she pleased herself in the dark solitude of her bedroom some nights, which most _definitely_ felt wrong in comparison… however delightfully so.

Ingrid at least had a _biological_ excuse for that. She was a hormonal teenager whose best friend, who she spent an excessive amount of time with, was extremely handsome. And charming. Chivalrous. Some might even say sexy. It was only natural that he'd appear in her sexual fantasies, especially now with her attraction to him, as she was sure she or Tehama might occasionally appear in his or Anza's. They were all teenagers, and they had all spent a copious amount of their formative years together.

She had no excuse for the romantic yearnings, however. No logical explanation for her attraction. Despite how much she loved spending time with Fillmore – he was her best friend, after all – she was glad Haldreth showed up when he did. She wasn't sure how much longer she could have withstood being so close to him without curling up next to him for warmth and affection.

Ingrid slipped on her leggings and rolled her eyes. Pitiful, Third, she thought. Positively pitiful.

She redirected her attention back to the mirror and took a towel to her hair, which sat at her shoulders, squeezing as much excess water out of it as she could. She looked at the hairdryer and straightener hanging up on the wall next to her and she sighed. While she was cold, and she knew the blow-drying and straightening process would help with that, she was exhausted, and that took time. She hooked the towel on the doorknob behind her and ran her fingers through her damp waves. If there ever was a time to skip her nightly hair-taming ritual, it would be during vacation.

And hot chocolate simply sounded delicious.

She shuffled out of the bathroom, turning the light off behind her, and made her way to the stairs. The sound of the TV in the living room drifted up to her ears and she cocked her head in confusion. Ariella had already told her good night before she got in the shower maybe thirty minutes ago. Her father wouldn't be awake at this hour, would he? As she got to the bottom of the stairs, her heart nearly launched out of her chest.

"And here I was thinking that I took long showers," Fillmore joked, sitting up straighter at her arrival. The TV was the only light source in the room and for that, she was thankful, because her face and chest grew hot.

"And here I was thinking I'd finally gotten rid of you for the night," she joked back, expertly masking her utter horror with a modicum of truth. She crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly very aware and mortified that she wasn't wearing a bra. She knew the slouchy, off-the-shoulder sweater she'd picked out would make that incredibly obvious. What was he doing here? she wondered in a panic, despite the playful smirk on her lips.

"Can't get rid of me that easy, mama, you know that," he said with a cocky half-smile. "I figured since we might not be seeing much of each other the rest of the week, I should probably take the time to let you enlighten me before Christmas, you know?" he explained and leaned over to pick up a DVD case off the table.

She scoffed as she registered the title on the cover. "As much as I would love the honor of accompanying you while you watch _A Christmas Story_ for the first time, you know what time it is, don't you?"

"It's about damn time, I thought you'd say."

Ingrid shook her head and chuckled. He could always make her laugh, even when she wanted to scream or cry or run and hide. She loved and hated that about him. She took a deep breath and jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. "I was just about to make some hot chocolate if you want to get the movie started."

"Now, you're talking," he praised and stood up, and she took a short moment to check him out. At some point, he'd changed into a loose-fitting gray t-shirt with dark sweatpants and she had to catch her breath. The casual, comfy look suited him, as did everything else. Oh, seven hells, Third, pull yourself together, she scolded herself. She ducked her head, praying he didn't notice as she made her way to the kitchen. However, after she turned on the kitchen light, she heard him falter. Crackers, she thought, he caught me. Just play it off.

"So, what was Haldreth's story?" she asked, desperate to redirect his attention as she grabbed the measuring cup from the drain rack and began to fill it with water. She heard his footsteps approach and stop in the doorway, but she refused to turn and look at him, opting instead to watch the water slowly fill the cup.

"Apparently, his parents fight a lot," he answered, suspiciously slow. "Especially around the holidays. He didn't wanna be the only one to suffer during Christmas." She peered at the corner of her eye, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. He was staring at her, brow furrowed. "What did you do to your hair?"

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Shit, my _hair_.

"What do you mean?" she asked, turning off the water with a deceptively steady hand and walking over to the microwave which, unfortunately, was right next to her frustratingly observant partner. Who was she kidding? She couldn't fool him now. She could try, but she would fail. She prayed he couldn't hear her heart with the way it was currently pounding in her chest.

"It looks different," he stated plainly, looking down at her suspiciously as she placed the cup in the microwave and set the timer.

She shook her head, meeting his eyes for only a second to say, "It's just wet," before turning on her heel to hunt down two mugs for them. She prayed Fillmore would drop it long enough for her to go upstairs and remedy that at record speed, but Fillmore went terrifyingly silent behind her as she rummaged through the cabinets. By the time she had located mugs for them, she turned around to find him standing directly behind her, and she ran straight into his hard chest with a startled gasp. "_Gatsby_, Fillmore—"

"Your hair isn't naturally straight, is it?"

She swore to herself. She sighed and closed her eyes, mugs still raised in the air. "Fillmore—"

"Look at these—what are these, curls?" he exclaimed with a toothy grin and lifted his fingers to tease her hair. Her face started to burn. "You know, I've always wondered—"

"Fillmore, please—"

"Ari and your dad both have—"

"_Yes_—" she snapped and pushed his hands away and out of her hair, despite how many times she'd dreamed of him doing just that "—this is my natural hair. I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't make such a big deal of it." She moved past him back towards the microwave. "Or, you know—" she said over her bare shoulder "—show up unannounced."

Fillmore, with a million-dollar grin, asked, "Ari didn't tell you she let me in, did she?"

"Think I would've come downstairs like this if she did?" she retorted and dumped the hot chocolate mix into their mugs. Of course, this was Ariella's doing. She was going to kill her. "Don't you have a movie to put in?" she asked spitefully.

"Don't you have a date with your flat iron?"

Ingrid snatched the box of Swiss Miss, turned and chucked it at him. He expertly dodged it with that goofy grin still plastered on his face, which infuriated her more. She shot him an icy glare. "I will kick you out, Fillmore."

"With a steel-toed boot, no doubt."

She scoffed and turned to watch the measuring up spin inside the microwave. Her face felt red hot and her heart was racing in her chest. She wasn't angry, but she hated that after all these years, he was finally beginning to pick up on her insecurities. First, the "you're not invisible in those jeans" bombshell and now with her damned hair. He wasn't being cruel by any means, but she wasn't used to him teasing her that way. She felt his amused eyes at the back of her head but tried to ignore it. He was enjoying making her uncomfortable and they both know she was hating it, but she wouldn't dare let it show. Suddenly, with only seconds left on the timer, she felt him stop behind her.

"It looks cute, you know," he whispered, his breath hot on her ear, and she had to hold back a shiver as he walked back into the living room. The moment he was out of sight, her hands covered her face.

That smug asshole.

Her hands flew up into her hair and she stared at the microwave as it dinged. Ari was as good as dead. This was all her fault. She couldn't have known Ingrid wouldn't do her hair, but it was her fault, nonetheless. Ingrid pulled the cup out and poured the water into the waiting mugs. Maybe this isn't as awful as you think it is, she thought. He said it was cute, not strange or messy, so he wasn't repulsed. Good sign. She grabbed a spoon and stirred.

"Don't forget the marshmallows," he called.

"Only if you promise to choke on them."

"Cross my heart." Ingrid rolled her eyes and reached up into the cabinet above her head to fetch them. "Maybe if I'm lucky, I'll need mouth-to-mouth."

A surprised burst of laughter passed her lips – if only _she_ got so lucky – and she shook her head. "Karen's not here, you know," she said and dropped a handful of marshmallows in his mug.

"Yeah, but I haven't talked to her in, like, a week. Gotta discharge all this charm on _someone_."

"Does it have to be me?" she asked, and she didn't have to fabricate the displeasure in her tone.

"You can't tell me you don't love it," he said, to which she shut her eyes with a quiet sigh. If he only knew how right he was. With a deep breath, she grabbed the mugs and walked back into the living room. He was propped against the arm of the couch, one arm across the back and one resting on his stomach, and he sat up when she appeared. Her heart surged. Why did he have to be so damn good looking? She thought bitterly. And why can't I simply keep it together?

"Not that I don't love it, per se," she began truthfully as she approached and handed him his mug, "but you wouldn't want to make Karen, our resident, aspiring forensic scientist jealous, now would you?"

He chuckled as she moved to sit next to him. "Solid argument. Thankfully," he spun the marshmallows around with his finger, "I don't think she knows enough to know how to kill me and make my body and all trace evidence disappear."

"Yet."

"Yet."

Ingrid chuckled and took a tentative sip of her hot chocolate. Fillmore had started the movie just before she entered, so she watched the opening credits roll as she sank into the couch, careful not to let herself gravitate too close to him. She held the mug close to her chest, savoring its radiating warmth, and Fillmore made some snide comment about how old the movie was. She scolded him for talking over Ralphie and they exchanged more banter before finally quieting down and letting the movie play.

As nervous as his presence had made her lately, she longed for these moments. Moments where they weren't chasing criminals. As much as she enjoyed all those things, these were the moments that made her feel normal: sitting on the couch with her partner – nay, her best friend – and watching a movie, tossing around the occasional joke. She relaxed into the couch, and Fillmore did the same.

Moments like these were what made her the most grateful to have a photographic memory. She could relive these moments whenever she chose, whenever she needed them. And, by God, does she sometimes need them.

Halfway through the movie, their mugs were long empty, and Ingrid yawned. It was nearing two in the morning, but she didn't dare ask him to leave. She had no doubt the snow was still falling and, to be honest with herself, she wouldn't ask him to leave even if the roads were clear. Feet propped up on the coffee table in front of her, she sank further into the couch cushions and crossed her arms as Ralphie dropped all the nuts into the snow and didn't say "fudge".

"What do you want for Christmas, Ingrid?"

Fillmore's question caught her off guard, pulling her out of the movie with a start. "Cutting it a little close, aren't you?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Nah, I already got you a present," he said with a shake of his head, "but I don't know for sure if it's one of the things you really wanted. I wanna know if I got close."

Something inside her "aww-ed". It made her feel special, especially that he was worried it wasn't perfect, even though it was Christmas when exchanging gifts was customary. "I'm sure I'll love whatever you got me, Fillmore."

"Oh, I know you will."

"Then why are you asking me?"

"'Cause that's what I wanna know." She scoffed in confusion, brows furrowed, and Fillmore draped his arm across the back of the couch. "If Ingrid Third could have anything in the world she wanted for Christmas, what would it be?"

She stared at him for a moment, bewildered by his sudden inquiry, before looking back at the TV. She couldn't tell him what she really wanted: to fall asleep and wake up next to him because she never slept better than she did that night. He watched her ponder, waiting patiently for her answer, and the Jeopardy jingle popped into her head.

"Since I'm going to love it, do I get to guess?" she asked, hoping to buy herself some time to come up with a safe answer for him.

He laughed heartily and shook his head. "You're not gonna guess it, mama."

"It's a book, isn't it? You always get me books."

"I don't always get you books! I got you a mug once."

"A mug with a book on it."

"A mug with a book_worm_ on it," he corrected with a finger in the air. "You're not answering my question."

Ingrid shrugged. "I don't know, Fillmore. I…" She trailed off, looking to the icicle lights dangling from the wall for guidance. Honestly, she had most of what she wanted. She prided herself on being simple, easy to please. She typically felt flattered any time she received a gift from a friend, no matter what it was. She involuntarily shivered, and Fillmore chuckled.

"Girl, how can you still be cold?" he asked. "You've been home for two hours."

Ingrid glared at him and snatched the blanket out from under his arm. "I'm small. Don't judge me," she warned and covered herself with it.

"Shoulda got you a blanket."

"I do like blankets."

"Noted."

They stared at each other for a moment, playful gleams in their eyes, before they turned back to the movie and fell silent. She buried herself in the blanket, unintentionally shifting closer to him as she did. Her heart skipped a beat at her mistake, but she didn't move away. He was close enough to feel his body heat, for her to get a whiff of his cologne, and she sighed in defeat. Face it, Third. You've created your own Hallmark moment; you might as well live in it while you can. She sighed and smiled, making Fillmore look down at her.

"What are you smiling for?" he asked, an amused smile of his own adorning his lips.

"I don't know," she answered with a shrug, keeping her eyes trained on the TV. Her heart raced as she debated telling him the truth. Or, at least, a variation of it. The best lie was a half-truth, after all. "I guess this is what I want for Christmas," she blurted before she could talk herself out of it. Her heart pounded in her ears, but Fillmore didn't answer, and she was tempted to leave it at that considering how quickly her mouth went dry. Curiosity, however, got the better of her. She looked over at him to find him looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "What?"

"What do you mean?"

She lifted her hands and gestured to their surroundings. "I mean this," she explained, but he continued staring hopelessly. "Just relaxing, doing normal things."

"'Normal things'?"

"You know, not playing 'cops' like it's our job," she joked, to which he chuckled.

"That's our normal, though," he told her, his smile turning serious. "Normal-normal is boring."

She smirked before continuing. "Don't get me wrong, Fillmore. I love what we do, and I love doing it with you, but we hardly ever do normal things together. Not as much as we should. Watching movies, hanging out… whatever normal teenagers do." The more she said, the wider his smile became, and she couldn't help but smile back at him, growing self-conscious. "What?"

"Ingrid Third wants to do normal things with me?" he asked, and Ingrid finally looked away, a hot blush creeping into her cheeks. "Scandalous."

"Forget I said anything."

"Hey, I asked," he said. She brought the blanket up to her chin, fighting the urge to hide the rest of her face from him. "Besides, now I know that while it's the perfect gift for you, you won't be getting what you really want after you open it."

"It's a book, isn't it?"

"It's a book. But," he stood up and walked around to the back of the couch, "it's not just any book." He bent down to where he dropped his overnight bag and pulled out a neatly wrapped book-sized package. Her jaw dropped.

"It's a wrapped book?" he pressed her hands to her chest and he rolled his eyes. "How did you know I was in the market for a mystery?"

"We're always lookin' for a mystery, mama." He winked at her and her heart fluttered. "That's our normal."

Beside herself, she smiled. Ariella was right; she did smile more when Fillmore was around. Damn him. "I thought we were waiting until Christmas to exchange gifts, Fillmore. Yours isn't here yet."

He waved her off as he walked back around the couch. "I know but I've been sittin' on this for months. I can't wait any longer." He held the gift out to her as he sat down and she took it.

"Months, huh?" she murmured as she turned the book over in her hands, wondering what it could be before carefully sliding a finger underneath each piece of tape to open it. As she read the cover, a gasp passed her lips. "Fillmore, this…" she trailed off, running a finger down the aged paper, across the title: Theodore Roethke, _Words for the Wind. _Slowly, she opened the hard front cover to the title page, which only read his name, the title, and the published date: 1957.

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. Her mouth hung open, her fingers frozen over the number, and she gasped again in disbelief. An original first edition? How did he find this? How had he even known? She hardly talked about her love for poetry. She'd mentioned Roethke before, but she didn't talk about him often enough for Fillmore to pick up on – oh, who was she kidding? Fillmore picked up on everything.

"How…?"

"I saw the audiobook for it on your phone once," he admitted, a Cheshire grin at his lips. "It's your most played on iTunes. I took that and ran with it."

She shot him a look, although she was anything but upset. "Do you snoop through my phone on a regular basis or just to be clever for Christmas?"

"Just to be clever. Promise."

Ingrid smiled. She couldn't be mad, not with this in her lap. She trusted him. She didn't keep anything embarrassing or incriminating on her phone, anyhow. "Fillmore, this is the first edition. Where did you find this?"

"I'll never tell." He was smiling down at her, and suddenly she was torn between looking at his damned smile or the priceless book in her hands. Her heart was simply overflowing. If this was one of Ariella's Hallmark movies, he'd kiss her if she kept his gaze.

Damn those cheesy, romantic movies.

She licked her longing lips before looking back down at the book, turning the starched pages with delicate, careful fingers. Shaking her head, she said, "This is just…"

"…the best Christmas present ever?" he finished for her.

She laughed and nodded, looking up into his dark, warm eyes. "You were right. I love it."

He smiled and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him. "I'm glad," he said. Heart racing, she tucked her head underneath his chin and clutched the book to her chest as he tightened his arms around her in a warm hug. The irony at hand: he had no idea he was fulfilling her true Christmas wish. She closed her eyes and leaned into him a little more just as his hand found her now-dry hair. "I still can't believe this is your real hair."

She opened and rolled her eyes as his fingers twirled strands of her natural hair. "We're having a moment here, Fillmore." She felt a chuckle rumble softly in his chest. "Don't ruin it."

"What?" he asked innocently as he tugged a strand. "It's pretty." Her stomach flopped. "And bouncy." Well, that was nice while it lasted, she thought.

"And you ruined it." He laughed as she lifted her head from his chest and opened the book to avoid looking at him. He thinks it's pretty? She pulled up the blanket to fight off a chill.

"You should wear it like that more."

"Not gonna happen," she said as she absentmindedly thumbed through the pages, Roethke's voice reciting the poems in her head as she skimmed them. She couldn't wait to read it with his voice in her ear. It would be like bringing him back to life. She tuned Fillmore out as he continued to tease her about wearing her hair naturally more often, opting to set the book on the table and focus on the movie.

"You're not listening to me anymore, are you?"

"Nope," she said with a yawn as she settled back into the couch at his side, where she felt she belonged. He shook his head and fell silent.

Ingrid caught a glimpse of the clock, which read just past two, and her eyes began to burn. Partly from exhaustion and partly from tears. He knew her so well. He was tough, intimidating to some, and serious on the outside, but he had a big heart. She was amazed he did that for her. She'd done some searching on her own for rare Roethke publications in the past and knew they were expensive, and that the price didn't stop him. She was worth that to him.

With a sigh, she sank further into the couch and into his side, her eyes getting heavy. Without thinking, she leaned her head against Fillmore's shoulder and closed her eyes. She felt him stiffen and she was flooded with instant regret. Dammit, Third, why did you – but he lifted his arm and draped it around her, his hand coming to rest at her elbow.

Oh, she thought and readjusted to rest her head in the crook of his shoulder and chest, this certainly felt familiar. His fingers ran halfway up her arm, almost grazing the skin of her exposed shoulder, and she had to suppress a shiver as his trailed back down to her elbow. His featherlight touch back and forth on her arm was enough to beckon sleep, and she felt herself relaxing into him.

"Thank you, by the way," she mumbled before she could forget, and his hand paused. A quiet moment passed before she felt his cheek on the top of her head.

"Anything for you," he whispered, his hand resuming its caress on her arm. Her heart nearly burst at his words. She should kiss him. That's what the leading ladies do in all the Hallmark movies. Even if it was just on the cheek, maybe that would fully express her gratitude. She obviously wasn't good at finding the right words.

He pressed his lips to the top of her head and her eyes flew open. "Merry Christmas," he murmured into her hair before resting his chin over the spot where he kissed her. Ingrid bit her lips to keep them from breaking into a pathetic smile.

Merry Christmas to Ingrid Third, indeed.

**xXxXx**

**I hope I gave you some Christmas feels, haha. Thanks for reading guys! Please let me know what you think! **

**Merry Christmas from yours truly,**

**ellameno **


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